


When Repression Meets Starved Electrodes

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Body Horror, Consensual Non-Consent, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, Electricity, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enthusiastic Consent, Erotic Electrostimulation, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Medical Kink, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mind Rape, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Obsession, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Size Difference, Smut, Temporary Character Death, Violence, killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22146730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: The Doctor either acts on his own devious desires for medical intervention or The Entity moves through its puppets when it's bored. Either or, doesn't matter because the end result is the same: locked in a cycle of questions with ever-lurking madness and wet hunger watching. You couldn't say for sure why The Doctor drug you into the land-locked barge. There were no clues as to why he chose you as his obsession-his subject-but it's been a while since you felt alive and, really, you don't have any say in the matter. Might as well let him mold your brain the way he wants it.A/N: An art trade for ZombBean. Please heed the copious amounts of warnings above. Thanks! <3
Relationships: Herman Carter | The Doctor/Original Female Character(s), Herman Carter | The Doctor/Reader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 164





	When Repression Meets Starved Electrodes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zombbean (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/gifts).



Tonight’s a night, much like the last. Just like the one before that, and all those to come. Same shit, different setting. This night—tonight—the bog reeds stand tall, unhindered in this darkness without wind to make them sing. 

Listening for the killer on the prowl, you crouch even lower, stuffed between several high fronds. Here, you wait.

The mud beneath your boots gives under your weight, but that’s fine. The fear of getting lodged with nowhere to go stays in your gut; it’s easily ignored for now. Carefully, you breathe. Each inhale, measured and quiet, is made to keep your body calm even though electric sparks begin to bubble out of the filth between your ankles. 

The Entity doesn’t want its fun to end, so neither does The Doctor. Neither do any of you, really. 

For those mice in a maze like yourself, the urge to find the gates—a ticket back to the campfire—puppets your ambition like a parasite. The mind and body sweat with desperation. 

You need to climb up high where the crows screech, not stuck down here in the muck where the only vantage point is the space between your knees. 

This trial isn't fun, but there’s something masochistic in each one of you that awakens every night. As soon as the mist clears, you’re all just pulsating adrenaline and… hunger. Others more fortunate might describe the gnawing need differently than you, but this feeling’s replaced the craving for food and drink… and other things.

Whatever amalgamation of souls, dimensions, and hatred The Entity is, its preferred source of fun is this: hunting night after night. The killers—its pawns—are forced to fill their meters of bloodlust while your fellow survivors bring forth the light and run. 

Always running. Just never getting anywhere. 

Like those swampy nights during the fall months down in the Florida Everglades, a fine and ever-warping haze kisses your ankles. The air is stagnant and sweltering. Beads of sweat slide over oily skin, down your throat to slip between your breasts. 

The shredded remains of your clothes—once the pinnacle of lazy Saturday fashion—cling to your ribs. Navy blue threads, just barely connected around the collar and waist, keep the oversized shirt from splitting open down the front. 

Someone, at some point, will toss you a new shirt, but as of now, the only soul you know of that has a spare is David King: the kind of guy with wandering eye syndrome… and, to be fair, you don’t blame him. Blame is for freedom anyway.

Pleasures are few and far between here. All alone. Always hungry. Why not take in some eye candy if you can get it?

You curse The Entity. You curse your many deaths, survivals, and David too for everything else as The Doctor grows closer. Ants race around your lobes, forming bridges between synapses that shouldn’t talk: the lovely side effects of The Doctor’s special talents. You hate it more than you hate The Huntress’s marksmanship and that fucking lullaby. 

Tonight’s killer draws closer. You sink deeper into the mud, trembling from the currents of exploding electrons between your lobes. His shock therapy upends a pasture of reeds close enough to make you yip. Another wave sends their tops off into the air. The intense pulse echoes beneath your feet, crawling up your legs and torso like stinging no-see-ums until you feel blood on your tongue. Earthy, sulphuric odors mix with the taste of red, making you gag audibly.

The good ol’ doctor stops several meters away. His head swivels left, right, then… bullseye. His gaze flicks across your position and, for a moment, your heart stops. There’s no way he doesn’t see you.

His exposed eyes pulsate as if synchronizing with your quickening heartbeat.

“Haaaarr-haaa-hur…” he breathes out his throat. Each exhale rushes out like a foghorn blare, born from peeled-back lips and what sounds like a raw, dry throat. Just the sound of his breathing is painful in a sympathetic way you never thought you’d feel for a bloodthirsty killer.

Don’t move, you remind yourself.

All your faith goes into the swamp—into the camouflage surrounding you, but knowing deep down that it won’t help. It never does. Because the closer The Doctor gets, and the longer he lingers, the more pronounced that hunger in your sinew becomes—the madder you become for release. 

His insanity is too contagious after all. 

The Doctor’s eyes twitch erratically through the thick mist, searching with a dire need to cure while exposing how utterly impatient he is to treat his future patients. However, just when you think he’ll grow bored this time—this time, he’ll spot someone else—he takes three long strides towards you… and without thinking, you book it. 

You don’t know where you're running to or where the fuck those exit gates are, but you scream on impact as a bolt of fear tears up your ankles, calves, knees, further and furthermore until hot lightning infects your brain. Even the parasite is thrown out of order, driving your motor functions straight into a dense grove of cypress trees and nettle that snap against your exposed skin. The brush with toxic vegetation and The Doctor’s static charge causes another belt of panic to escape your lungs. Higher this time, you scream.

Crows flutter, squawking in alarm even though The Doctor is hot on your heels. 

You’re cornered just as you’ve been before so many times now. There’s no escape because this time, you’re done for. The only person who might have borne the potential insanity to rescue you halfway across the given terrain is wounded... and they’re not selfless… or stupid. 

A hair’s breadth away, The Doctor laughs barbarically. It’s a sound that’s rife with pain but oozing enjoyment despite it. 

His giant hand snatches up the back of your neck, digging fingers and thumb into the front of your throat like he’s going to force them between quivering artery and taut tendon. 

One last scream blurts out with a tight squeeze and then… goodbye oxygen. 

He doesn’t throw you over his shoulder, nor does he shove you face down in the hard-packed earth to pump you full of volts. Instead, The Doctor drags you beside him with a choking grip until your knees feel like pulverized jelly, and your heart starts crawling out of your chest. 

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been sacrificed to The Entity—to it’s short, butcher shop of an afterlife. Each death feels like the first because each one could be the last, and if it’s the last... what happens then? Do you dissolve into the mist that whispers and lies? Or do you become a slave to its whim like The Doctor?

Heaving, gasping breaths come from above. That hard, arid rasp sends goosebumps down your limbs. 

Never before have you been sacrificed by him. Hooked and left to hang on a meat hook, yes, but not sacrificed. Never killed either. That’s fine though... honestly. It was bound to happen sooner or later. 

Somewhere to your left, a branch snaps. Crows flutter to the abyssal skies, but The Doctor doesn’t pause as he stomps across muddy water toward your demise. 

His endgame isn’t a hook like you expect it to be for anyone else. You’ve heard stories of killers being merciful to the strongest survivor by throwing them down an open hatch or shoving them through The Entity’s teeth into safety, but this doesn’t feel like that. 

Too oxygen-starved to struggle out of his hold on your throat, The Doctor quickly makes his way towards the center of The Entity’s stadium: an old tugboat halfway submerged in the muck. 

He throws you down like you’re as impossibly sturdy as himself, sending you gulping for oxygen across broken wood boards. Inside your chest, something snaps. Ripe tones of past survivors and swamp-water decay waft up your nose. You only start processing the pain in your left side when The Doctor puts a boot heel into your spine to pin you down in pain and despair. 

Each shallow, minuscule breath kills. 

Despite the excruciating pain, you hear the rustle of reeds in the near distance. There’s no animals but the crows and no souls but the survivor, so it’s someone coming to your rescue. A little cherry of hope burns in your chest where the busted ribs ache. 

The sound whistles a little close—a little warmer. 

Standing vigilant above you, The Doctor stills. Maybe he’s looking for the same thing you are. Even pinned to this broken boat in the middle of a sweltering swamp hole, you know it’s suspect. Unless, of course, he hears what you hear, and you’re bait for bigger fish. 

It seems such a sure thing that you’re just a nibble to lure the rest to him, that the first purposeful knick to your shirt makes you jolt. You’re fingers twitch in the loose boards in front of your face. You stare past them at a sagging porthole in terrorized confusion. 

Stale air strokes your spine, but it’s the precise dig and tug on your old bra that turns your blood to ice. 

Oh shit, you think, wheezing. 

The Doctor chuckles madly and traces the length of your naked shoulder with his rod. The reeds rustle as if in shock, and you scream until all the crows scream with you and take flight. 

Another cut, this time to your bra strap, goes too deep. Blood pools in the divot of your spine. The sting is nothing compared to the throbbing of your ribs, but it’s enough that you see your mommy’s smiling face in the shrubbery. 

No, you think, and blink rapidly. It’s sure as shit not your dear, dead mom. Meg Thomas—the woman who could outrun anything… even The Oni with a brain full of frenzy—is hunkered down, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. 

If anyone could get you out of this pickle, it’ll be her… but what is there to do but run? She could make herself known, but one more hit and she’ll go down like a rag doll. Will he unclothe both of you then? Or will he throw poor Meg on a hook and let her watch whatever he has planned?

She stares at you through swamp grass, obscured even moreso by the carcass of a rowboat that’s just planks and old screws now. Meg watches, but she doesn’t save you… because there’s no point...

… but she watches. 

For whatever reason, Meg stays rooted where she is, unwilling or unable to look away. The Doctor’s going to fuck you—rape you—and she shows no signs or helping or running.

The Doctor crushes your spine under his boot until your toes go numb and begins sawing through your jeans like they’re age-softened wrapping paper. 

Electrical shock waves come off his flesh. The warm currents turn your muscles into taffy and the pain into inconsequential needles. Wave after wave crashes through you until you're malleable, weakened to do with as he pleases, and he does please. 

Once you’re limp and drooling, he drags you further into the lodged shipwreck where the sluggish blink of a generator light coats your exposed skin. With a strained motion, you peer over your shoulder at Meg’s big, wet eyes staring at you through the razor-blade grass. 

She should have left you here, you think… time and time again. Being left alone and able to pretend it never happened would have been kind, but she has to sit there and watch. Who wants a fucking witness to this?

Between ear and brain, your heartbeat gallops.

The Doctor’s heavy breathing somehow overpowers your own strained hyperventilation. Even when he slaps you over on your back, forced to witness the sight of his meat-threaded fingers unsnapping his suspenders, it’s his toothy panting you hear. 

His eyes shift mechanically in his pried-apart-sockets; frenzied. Those needle-point pupils of hot blue are of a predator about to sink teeth into the soft underbelly of their prey. And the good ol’ doctor sinks so, so deeply. 

Another shockwave ripples through your body, starting in the roots of your teeth and ending in your nail beds. It shakes you so horrendously that, by the time your body regains sensation, The Doctor’s already torn your cunt with several thick thrusts. 

His teeth bite above you the moment he touches bottom. 

You blink but see only static and feel only heat—only blossoming pain that’s wet and tight and slightly… appealing. 

His grossly hot breath gushes across your face.

Another deep, cunt-sucking thrust brings back the world and the shifting miasma watching above. To the right, Meg is watching your grunts of pain turn receptive and high. 

It’s brutal, as you always figured forced sex would be, but common knowledge doesn’t prepare you for the unique methods granted to one of The Entity’s killers. Even in this, nothing is normal. In this, you find yourself preferring it over the pain in your chest. For pleasure is always welcome when it masks physical discomfort… even if the onset of such bliss comes with its fair share of pain. 

Being ripped from navel to throat by The Entity’s spider-like hooks would have been more merciful, perhaps, especially with Meg watching. 

The way Jake and Jeff were both disemboweled earlier—purple-corded intestines swaying beneath their feet like fat silly string—seemed less brutal. It might not have hurt less… but it would have been quicker than this… this slow, meticulous torture. 

Saliva gleams around the metal spreaders pulling his lips back in a snuff-smile. He’s grinning and slobbering as he bruises his fingers around your throat—feeling those moans before they can resonate—and fucks your body into a bed of broken wood panels and crooked nails. 

The pain is bearable now even if the size of him alone rips at your walls like his sharpened mallet did your clothes. Fresh blood and fluids combine with the acrid, swampy bouquet. The scent stings your eyes where tears stream endlessly, but there’s something sweet to it. Like the perfume hovering over some clean, dead body. 

Something inside you snaps as you rock against the monster owning your body. It’s a flipped breaker—a hot bulb shattering. 

The Entity knows pain. It delivers it each night without fail, but it doesn’t care for pleasure… the very least of which is its prisoners. But The Doctor knows pleasure, and he delivers it come the rise of blood and curl of your toes or the kick of an unwilling subject. 

No, he doesn't rape to cause you horror, not at least in the traditional sense. The Doctor strokes a thumb across your voice box until moans turn into whimpers for more and more… harder and meaner and deeper…

Life and death through cock and teeth and black site-funded lightning wrap around your body as The Entity watches through the mist—as Meg watches through the reeds. 

And the sickest part about it? You like it. Love it. 

Every thrust is an intrusion—a seizure of muscle fiber with ripened euphoria. The constant crackle of electricity loosens your resistance despite trying to fight the realization that this is the best you’ve felt since that near car crash. 

You cum when he cums: frothing and whimpering as he continues slapping his hips between your limp thighs. Over and over, you quiver as Meg makes a slight sound of horror that goes ignored by The Doctor. 

By the time you’re shaking in the throes of another orgasm, the distant exit gate alarm sounds. Meg survives, but she lives with the knowledge of what The Doctor did to you… 

Before The Entity rattles the earth like a stomach awaiting sustenance, you bleed and flood around his cock a third time, and again, you cry out. Toward the end of it, you're a blubbering, needy mess. Wanting more and more, until the javelin needle lurches from the ground to impale you; spine to navel.

The spider leg snaps. A disassociated pain explodes in your cranium while semen slips from your abused cunt, taking a piece of The Doctor with you even though you’ll never be rid of him now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You awaken around a campfire with David King tucking a jean jacket tightly around your chest—so tight you almost forget who he is and slug him for getting too close… unsure even what close means anymore. No one could ever be as close to your guts as The Doctor was. Too small and tight, yet weak around all that delicious meat. 

Everyone asks you what happened during the last trial, but the excuses come easy when Claudette brings up your tattered clothes. 

It’s only when Meg keeps quiet that any of them stop to wonder if you’re full of bullshit or not, but thinking only helps The Entity suck their souls dry. It only makes the feast sweeter—only making each one of them hungrier...

“Sure there’s no convincing you on the full story?” David asks to fill the void. 

He’s been trying fruitlessly to open you up for hours, days… weeks, maybe. Could be it’s the first time he’s asked, being but minutes since The Entity spat you back out like a bitter seed. 

It’s just boredom, you remind yourself. He’s just eager for jabber, because you’re all stuck in an ancient being’s limbo. But it’s his jacket around you, so you shrug, “... just snagged it all on those fucking nails and branches. We’ve all been there.”

David King’s busted lips thin in a frown. 

He might’ve taken more than his share of licks, but he’s not stupid. And he might want to pass the time whilst between your thighs… but he’s not without his concerns.

“We ain’t all been there.”

You’ve got no response to that so you stay quiet and try your best to ignore the internal clench at the thought of ‘him.’ Even now, you can still feel The Doctor as if he’s still inside you. 

The campfire chatter gradually grows quiet.

On the outer edge of the campfire, Meg Thomas sits down with a lowered look. You hug your knees, drop your chin against the smooth balls, and glare at her. David doesn’t notice the exchange, or lack thereof, but she was there watching, so you watch back. 

Because of her, you can’t get the trial out of your head. Meg just had to fucking watch as The Doctor pulverized your mind, body, and whatever soul you had left.

It’s merciless sometimes, and you accept that... yet the betrayal stings. Not because she left you for dead, but that she stayed to watch the scene unfold for whatever dumb reason. 

After several millennia in the dark passage of eternity, you turn to David King with his swollen face and earnest eyes. He looks back with something vulnerable in his gaze, but you’re broken now. All that’s left of you are diseased partitions left untreated and eager to be cured.

You lean in, ignoring the flutter of his lashes and ask, “What do you know about The Doctor?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whatever length of time is eaten between the last trial and the next is always spent by the fire. Thanks to David, you spend your fickle time-devouring morsels of paperwork and articles gathered from The Shack on the outskirts of the forest. 

Apparently, according to David, The Entity spat out the place hundreds of trials ago, maybe thousands, but you’re not so sure. 

He didn’t notice it until recently, as though it hadn’t really been there long enough to warrant the decaying wood paneling and creeping vines. Though the vegetation sprawling around the dwelling looked familiar, you can’t recall passing it by on your treks to see how far the tree line went. Even deeper, nestled in some backwoods memory, you can remember walking out of the drooping door frame and into this nightmarish afterlife… but if that’s a dream or something real isn’t worth the time to discern. 

Sense never mattered in The Entity’s belly anyway.

As you read faded ink passages, moans echo from the sunken shack. Someone is fucking someone else, or themselves. Sounds of sexual conquest pervade as you close and open each new folder. Distant slapping of skin… muffled moans… agonized whimpers and gargled laughs—The Doctor above you with frenzied drool between his teeth.

Unconsciously, you clench your insides, feeling nothing and everything. 

Much like the sacrifices and deaths that came and went, you’ve been birthed anew with little physical memory of The Doctor’s care. The pain and overstimulation from so many orgasms remain absent just like the many fatal wounds before it, but the mental scarring is there, waiting to be torn open. 

Down in your lap, his dossier stares up at you. 

A cloudy photo of him pre-Entity grins with sadistic glee as you wipe the sweat off your upper lip. It’s impossible to get a good look at him from the old black and white photo, but it’s enough to realize he was a monster even before this... 

Feeling throat-swollen and hungry, you grab at your neck and squeeze until you’re breath stops. Neither the bruises from his prodding fingers nor electric scars from his palms groping across your sweaty skin are left. All vanishing like a nightmare.

As you sit there by the fire—quiet and contemplative—The Doctor’s phantom grabs you close as the noises from the shack reach their crescendo. You wonder, holding your throat in hand, if he’ll be the one to break you in the end. Not The Entity… just him...

“Find anything good?”

The voice of David King cuts through a sudden wave of developing lust. 

You close The Doctor’s folder and drop it in your lap, craning your neck towards him. “No, but it’s better than waiting around with a log up my ass.”

Your attempted humor and recent memories don’t mix well. A gross visual really drives home how much The Doctor has shaped your mind in the short amount of time he spent with you. The damage prevents you from falling on jokes to get through the endless night. 

David shrugs one shoulder as if there’s a kink in it and nods off to the noisy shack with wry amusement, “Could be worse, right?”

You send a single, apathetic glare toward the fuck shack and another stern look back at David. It’s nothing personal, but you’d rather be alone. And because he’s not stupid, he sees that and says he’ll ‘see you later,’ which he will.

More time. More reading. Less sanity…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You carry your bitterness along with the knowledge you’d garnered from The Doctor's notes into another game—towards another uncountable trial. 

All around, nightmares bend and blend and bend some more. Each winding corridor brings you closer to the bridge where it all ends or begins. Between sense and madness.

“It’s open!” You shout as Feng stumbles past rusted towers of car parts to freedom. Behind the fog, too far away, is Dwight, clutching a broken arm and the last of his strength. 

Feng shuffles past you, fading into the darkness. It’s just you and Dwight and the killer fast on his heels. 

Standing vigilant at the exit, you wait, deciding for sure that if he goes down, you’ll make every effort to save him. But when he takes a katana to the spine, you don’t move. 

It’s not Herman Carter with his forced pleasure and body horror invading your cunt with relish—it’s not The Doctor that looks at you through crushed steel beams… but it might as well be. 

The second that rusted butcher’s hooks perforates Dwight’s clavicle, you tuck tail and run. Cowardly, you think, shamed. 

It’s definitely not your finest moment, but Dwight doesn’t hold it against you. Like David said, “we’ve all been there” in some form or other.

Between your third and fourth break between trials, Meg finally sits down beside you. She shifts—uncomfortable—but works through it like the willful woman that she is. Even if she bites her lip red in awkwardness at first, Meg eventually looks at you with a furrowed brow and says what she means. 

“I planned on distracting him,” she doesn’t say his name because she doesn’t know it, but she refuses to voice the moniker either, “but this hell is repetitive. I regret watching what happened, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have an excuse… it was just... different, so I watched it.”

Fresh memories flood between your thighs, dampening your shorts where underwear no longer clings. Thinking about, or being reminded, doesn’t seem to bring the terror you thought it would. With each recollection, the side effects are becoming increasingly… enjoyable… almost exciting. 

You look over at Meg as she picks apart grass to flick into the fire. “Kinda wondering if this place isn’t meant to turn us all into sadists… or masochists…” you confess in contemplation. 

Meg arches a brow, but still looks worried, “Is that your way of insulting me? Cause it’s—“

“Think about it,” you counter, fingers rummaging in David’s jean jacket where you keep The Doctor’s photograph, “we’re not the first people pitted against the killers. With each trial, we all get a little meaner, a little—“

“Madder?” Meg mentions coldly. A slight look of horror immediately twists her face, but the damage is done. 

“Exactly,” you smile sadly. Point proven.

While you absently thumb the velvet-soft photo, Meg sits with you in silence. It’s always hard to tell what she’s thinking, rarely dropping that pensive crease between her brows, but the aura she puts off is black. Tar and road salt across innocent snow...

“So, what are you gonna do about it?” She asks, tired. 

The corner of your lips twitch into a shallow grin, “Does it matter?”

Short answer: no, it doesn’t. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You go into The Entity’s next trial with an apathetic mentality, which quickly turns manic the second you see the sparks running across the floor. All your internal talk about giving in to the whims of The Entity leak out via sweat and unshed tears at the real possibility of facing ‘him’ again.

The second The Doctor triggers your heartbeat is the second you lose your resolve. His electricity barely strokes your frontal lobe before every corridor showcases the same paintings, the same coven of laughing crows and rubber plants. 

He’s in his environment, and you’re not. 

One by one, everyone finishes their tasks while you run aimlessly through Léry’s Memorial Institute, feeling that hot breath on the back of your neck like he’s toying with you. They all think you’re being altruistic by leading him around the hospital, but really, you’re running to save your own sanity. 

The whitewashed walls drip with black mold. Soggy carpets slime your heels with moisture so he can easily hear the frightful squeak across linoleum. 

You turn mid-run and throw down a pallet at the last second, gasping as Herman Carter startles out of his hunt. A blast of static discharges from a coiled fist in reflex. Electrical tubes wiggle as his bicep curls and down… down goes that sharp rod he used to tear away your clothes…

For too long, you waiver and stare in horror—in a thrill that sinks too low. You stop and stare like a lobotomized patient, taking in the sheer size of him. How long since the last?! How did you survive him… or had you? 

A sudden shockwave of tight electricity shoots up your feet, barreling through your brain like sharp snowflakes growing in perfect weather. Mushy grey matter tickles inside your cranium. Synapses break and sink—sink like a brick to the bottom of the sea... 

You swallow, tasting brine, and sink further into the darkness that cracks with white veins of lightning. But despite the fire in your skull and moisture between your thighs, you twist, bump off a wall and run. 

As soon as you feel him closing in—heated breath on your neck—you duck and change course.

The Doctor guffaws with each missed smack of his menacing mallet, growing increasingly desperate. His need—his lust—is palpable. The tendrils of it linger around his body, infecting your mind… and something more than that. 

'Hur-hur-hur-hurrr!' he laughs between your ears. 

Close by, the exit doors groan open. The noise triggers muscle memory despite your thighs tearing. Another missed swipe of The Doctor’s thick weapon bounces off the corner of a wall, sending chips of plaster raining down your shoulder. 

You inhale dust and grit, and it’s that which makes you cough and wheeze, watching your wounded peers waving you out of the trail, as Herman closes in on you. 

He snarls like a bare-toothed hound, and a slurp of electricity makes your body hair stand on end, knowing what’s to come. 

A shock and whack of his mallet against your ribs send you stumbling against a reception desk. Papers—dotted with mold and moisture—scatter across the desk and to the floor as you brace yourself for the delayed wash of pain. 

Ahead of you are the doors to freedom with three crouched survivors waiting. 

It’s Meg that nearly leaves the bloodied group, but it’s David that pulls her back, looking resolute. Not like you’re gone for good but, only she knows what’s about to happen to you. The gesture is appreciated even if it means nothing right now.

Thick, dense hips press into your backside. 

The Doctor slips his fingers around your neck just as the last survivor of tonight’s trial leaves into the cold, frosty transition between here and there. 

“Please,” you beg pointlessly.

That fine line between arousal and fear twangs like a gut string, coupled with the aftershock sparks coming off his dark skin; it puts you in a weak frenzy. There’s only a moment to consider how ashamed you’ll be once this is over before the meaty-fingered hand coiled around your neck touches roughly down your spine. 

David King will be sad to see his jacket in whatever state The Doctor leaves it in...

Herman’s weapon clangs across the tile. The noise echoes, sending your body rocketing against the desk in shock. He laughs in a stream of recorded lightning and smothers your lips in an iron-tanged palm. 

The sweet smell of crispy flesh invades your senses. Every breath brings with it a new scent off his skin: blood, sweat, metal, and… 

Without thinking, you poke your tongue to his palm, wince at the caustic taste much like a bad battery, and succumb to another level of madness when your cunt flutters in response.

The Entity’s countdown slows to a crawl as if to laugh at your fate. Mercy is not its strong suit, and neither is its killers, puppets that they are. 

For a brief moment, The Doctor’s touch goes soft, not enough to escape—never that—but not ungentle. And for a moment, you sink into it, so hungry for something bereft of pain that you'll easily be bewitched by this monster. 

Herman Carter prods your cheeks with his fingers and thumb, tracing your teeth through the blushing skin before squeezing your lips together. A harried groan whistles between them as another crack of electricity dances across the faux wood desk.

“Jus’ kill-eee…” you try, feeling the tears begin to flow.

“Hur’hur’e’hehe.” His enjoyment echoes off the tarnished walls as you brace yourself for the inevitable. However, The Doctor, as unpredictable as last time, draws a strangled moan from you as he digs around your stomach then down and in, squeezing your cunt through your shorts.

Your breath sticks in your throat as your pelvic floor clenches. 

Currents of electrons vibrate the damp flesh until it itches and burns. Pleasure is a given… but it’s the hot need for more the second it ends that causes you to panic. 

He flicks your clit through soaked denim, cackles, and lifts you against his chest by cunt and face. 

Your legs bounce and kick, fingers trying to shave off as much skin from his forearms as possible. A bulbous tube that hums around his bicep catches your nails, so you rip it out with a scream. 

The Doctor doesn’t falter, and he doesn’t make a sound. Hissing gasses release from the ruined tubing, louder than the harried breaths between your crushed lips. 

Tattered remains of a once prestigious hospital pass on by: framed photos of reviled doctors, staff, and alumni hang, watching and grinning. Had any of them been here, none would come to your rescue… for Carter’s experimental electrotherapy sessions were without rules or morals even then, and especially now.

He carries you into the horror show that was—forever will be—Léry’s Memorial Surgical Theatre: a place where sadism must have been at its peak during the Cold War.

At the return of its intended host, the analog television sets yawn with static. Faces form from the tech-snow, screaming until you scream, then screeching higher and louder until you can’t hear your own deafening cries.

Through your face and cunt, The Doctor delivers a dose of shock therapy through his palms, wrecking you from groin to brain before laying you limp and doped in a grim operation chair.

Dazed, you can’t help but wonder aloud, “How many patients... lost their minds here? And... was it here... The Doctor beheaded that… his… mentor to see how… how?”

Herman Carter pants through his tarnished teeth as he manhandles your wrists into the cushioned armrests. As the leather bonds are pulled taut, you blink back into the boat… struggling against wood panels and old, shredded manacles. The cold of winter snow outside swirls with the stale swamp of then. Even those past smells mix with the present ones of old disinfectant and body fluids. 

“No! Help!— Somebody help me! HELP—“

A fist collides with your nose and cheekbone. Something breaks. Crushing pain and exploding blood spurt out both nostrils until it worms between your lips, choking and caustic. 

You inhale through your nostrils, tasting blood dripping down the back of your nasal passage. A bubble of red liquid pops out one nostril as a slow river of drool pools over your lower lip. It drips down your chin, dribbling into the hollow of your throat. 

Madness envelopes the rotten sensation like opiates for a moment, just long enough to lull you into deceptive warmth while The Doctor tears open another cuff and binds your ankle to a mechanical stirrup. 

Only one leg is left unbound, free to kick and jab uselessly as Herman takes a step back and cranes his head. Glowing eyes of sour sapphire flick across his handiwork, almost smiling beyond the contraption pulling his lips and lids back. 

But once you're strapped up and ready to be raped to death, he leaves.

You follow his broad back around a corner. Your heartbeat settles. The cold burrows into your bones as the warmth from his electrical whiplash dissipates. It’s a sick game he plays, because now you’re alone and shivering and wondering when he’ll return with heat—something to dull the broken face he’s given you. 

“Take me,” you blubber to The Entity’s low mist, “...please.”

Nothing but television static returns your request. 

In the distance, a metal rattle rolls and skips. You twist and arch against the straps. The sound grows louder as does your jumping heartbeat. 

Through tear-coated vision and wet lashes, you watch The Doctor pull a medical cart across corrugated metal floors. Eyes—like floating fireflies, only poisonous—sweep across your taut body in the midst of struggle. 

With evident glee, his teeth chatter. Hard muscles beneath his dirty pinstripe suit bulge and flex, stretching his suspenders tight. Any arousal you feel looking at him is explained by your sick mental state: it’s not you, it’s him. It’s his fault. 

You’re just sick...

Herman Carter’s metal grin spreads wider as if he agrees. Sick and in need of a cure, he nods, backlit by the many flickering, haunting images breaking through the televised snow. 

You take him in like you hadn’t before. You’d been on your stomach for half of it, and the rest was spent in a fever of pain and shame. Now, there’s no one but you, him, and The Entity with its sick puppet theatre. 

Both you and The Doctor grow quiet, assessing the other for a moment—panting breathes and vile adrenaline shared—before the standstill is broken. He fists the tattered shirt under David’s jean jacket and rips it open. 

Your bare tits bounce against the force it takes to rend all those threads, nipples puckering tightly as cold air chills. Every tremble of your body makes the flesh jiggle, makes Herman Carter salivate. 

His fist clenches at his abdomen and releases a slow wave of static. Each pulsation of electricity pulls your nipples tighter until they ache as severely as your busted nose. 

“It hurts…” you whisper, then with a swallow, you ask his crackling fist, “...stop.”

Instead of another bash to the face, his fist hovers close. Bridges of light spark between his skin and your cheek. The tickling heat floods broken capillaries, soothes inflammation and connects synapses in your brain. A flush of endorphins courses through the damaged bone. 

A weak, euphoric moan rolls off your tongue, and with that, you give in. Fighting will get you nowhere; the Doctor can give pleasure as well as he can pain, and you know which one you want more of.

Closing your eyes, you steady yourself as he steps closer. The cart he’s brought in rattles, but you’re too afraid to look at the tools he’s brought.

You twitch—a bolt of panic shooting deep—as something cold presses beneath your navel. A pressure sinks into your skin, followed by iced fire and something wet… something sticky. 

You crack your eyes open to find The Doctor pulling a bloody scalpel away from your stomach, staring maniacally at the drip of blood off the tip. He strokes your bare skin with one hand and groans as he licks the copper-tang from his blade. Skin-flayed fingers dip into a shallow cut that ends at the seam of your shorts, but the pain is fickle, flipping between tiny stings and lashes of warmth. 

The sticky streak his touch leaves on your skin reminds you how much blood he’s spilled tonight—how much he’s yet to spill. For some reason, the thought trips a switch. With the lights on and Carter’s rewiring, you grin as he starts slicing through denim seams and soft skin. 

You only wish the thought of this was disgusting… instead, you gnash your teeth, hissing a moan the second the soaked material is yanked out from under your ass.

The Doctor pauses with a fistful of shredded denim in his hands. His eyes dart across your naked groin, lingering where he fucked you bloody and broken before. 

“Go on… “ you goad, “do it.”

When he doesn’t move, you bare your teeth and lift your hips, “Do it! I want you to. I want you to do it… do it… come on!”

All around the crumbling dome of static and flashing machinery, a voice rumbles. Chains of lightning connect overhead, snapping together in bursts of bright rain. 

The Doctor’s booming laughter grows. 

The Memorial Hospital shakes. 

Dust tumbles in tufts from the ceiling, and something spindly and toothsome appears on the televisions: one giant eye watching. 

Herman Carter’s eyes twitch erratically. A groan like pain rips between his teeth, but his hands grope and squeeze each naked inch of you until you’re writhing upwards into his palms. 

Moisture slips from your cunt to the dirty plastic cushion beneath. Everything’s filthy and wet and cold, but bursting with internal heat—enough body warmth to make you lean ever further into each bruising grip. 

His nails carve down your breasts, wreaking havoc on your tight nipples. He litters your front with long, angry welts and smears of blood. The Doctor's hands meet above your mound in a heart-shaped arc from your clavicles to your cunt. 

His thumbs part your lower lips, peeling you open so he can lunge forth and jab his tongue inside. 

You jerk in shock, but sag in pleasure. 

His tongue wiggles and tastes: a technique not meant to bring pleasure, yet it does. The Doctor nips you with bare teeth, rubs his gums in your folds, and gurgles out wet giggles as he devours you. All the while, little bolts of electro-stimulus leak into your womb.

In their binds, your arms struggle to pull him closer. 

Carter smashes his face into your cunt. Nose, lips, teeth, tongue, and all rub and bathe, slobbering noisily and hungrily against your slippery flesh until he finds what he’s looking for and melts between your thighs.

His mangled fingers dent your open legs, massaging and shoving them further open. He licks furiously at a spot inside you that causes your cunt to gush. It’s a burning pleasure—searing but addictive. 

Each toothy slurp and sloppy sound cuts through the mundane existence your life has become. It’s this he gives, and it’s this you cum for. 

Good ol’ Doc and his cure, you daydream as sparks of electricity pop off your stomach. Hard contractions around his tongue make his hungry noises louder, grosser. It isn’t until your trembling with another orgasm that you feel a pang of fear sneak in through the rushing pleasure, a worry that the feel-good cocktail will go rancid too quickly. 

By your second and then third climax, your insides are so swollen and inflamed that The Doctor—no matter how far he strains to reach—can’t force his slippery tongue where he wants it… needs it to go. He gives up with a roaring garble, chattering his teeth in frustration, and blindly slaps a hand across the metal cart. 

Every orgasm-soft muscle jumps at the sound. 

You blink, trying to dispel the intoxication from his tongue and passive electro-stimulations. As your vision clears, you're met with The Doctor and a dusty speculum with a loose mouth. The sight of it in his hands breeds a particular horror.

No manner of kicking your free leg saves you. He snatches it up quickly with a spit-filled giggle and straps it down like the other. 

“Fuck no,” you blurt. 

Sweating despite the cold, you stare in horror at the instruments tangled across his medical cart: long hooked tools, ladles, crab-claw scissors, and clamps galore. 

As The Doctor chuckles and licks his teeth, fingering your folds and tender cunt, you scream. You scream for help. For mercy. For death. 

He spreads your tender lips and makes a show of wagging his off-color tongue in your face as he pushes the cold surgical steel of the speculum through multiple orgasms’ worth of resistance. At first, the cold metal soothes, but the sharp sound of washers and threads banging together as he cranks it open covers you in a clammy sweat.

There’s no point is begging him to be gentle… but you do it anyway.

You’re cranked open regardless of your mutterings to “stop, fuck it hurts… stop!” He stretches you open until the ribbed muscles burn with microscopic tears.

The Doctor makes a satisfying sound, grinds his teeth, and stuffs his fingers inside the opening. You feel full pressure beneath your pelvis, idly wondering if he’s plucking your cervix.

How many fingers he’s fit within, you don’t know. But Herman Carter looks more than pleased despite the braces around his round eyeballs and gnashing teeth. 

Dark gums shine around oxidized fangs in a gruesome smile. Fluids that are surely your own slobber down his chin and up his nose. You stare in hypnotized mania as his eyes slip in their sockets across your nakedness. 

The sound of his zipper brings back memories…

Dazed and high off electro-sexual therapy, you search the corners of the Surgical Theatre, expecting to find someone—maybe Meg again—watching as The Entity’s eye narrows in interest on the TV-set. The circular auditorium feels claustrophobic in its openness. Shattered windows above gaze down. Clouded wisps of winter mist twist into human shapes, observing.

Tonight, you can’t help but look at The Doctor’s hidden weapon. Ignoring the gazing puppet shadows of The Entity, you watch him pull his cock free. 

It huge, but you know that already. The fat length sags with weight and blood. He’s hard and throbbing, but too big to stand upright fully. The sight should be revolting; it should make you sick, but it doesn’t. 

Around the speculum, your cunt contracts. Your body, mind, and shredded soul wait for him with wet lips and quivering limbs.

The second his hand presses down on your slashed abdomen, you whimper, “Oh’okay... stick it in.”

Carter drops his head to the side, lifting his fat, dark cock in hand while fingering the precise wounds beneath your navel. The pain is delightful thanks to his amped touch.

Again you choke out eagerly, “Go on,” and then softer as if that will coax him, “...yes, go on. Do it, please.”

He nudges the slices between your hip bones, gathering fresh blood to paint around your stretched outer lips.

With a squeeze to his engorged shaft, he walks forward. Body heat makes you glisten, sweating only to then shiver beneath the drafty winter air. 

Underestimating the size of his own cock, The Doctor tries to fuck you; he tries to thread his dick through the speculum’s passage only to meet a narrow opening of pussy-warmed steel. 

Your breath leaves your lungs in a gasp when he snarls and yanks it out of you with a slurp of sound.

Quickly, while your still loose and reeling, Carter fists your mound, pries your cunt open with a thumb, and stuffs his enormous cock where medical equipment had once been. The stretch is revolting; it’s vile and sickening… and you love it.

You choke down bile and lay frozen, afraid to breathe in case the delicate bridge of enjoyment snaps. 

“Huuurrrrr’hur’hrrrrr…. haaaaa!” The Doctor chuckles obscenely, fucking your abused hole just as violently as the last time. So much so that the chair starts skidding, screaming against ancient tile. 

Nothing feels like this. Nothing hurts this much. Nothing feels this good. Purgatory is him, and he is hell.

Carter snarls and grabs the sides of the chair, muscles straining the linen jacket. He regains his position with a step forward, recalculates the tilt of his hips, and continues spanking his cock inside. Around the chair trim, his hands erupt in large, throbbing veins that bleed electricity. Static shocks crawl up the faux leather cushions and stuffing, along the metal and through your sweaty, naked skin. 

You brace yourself—gripping the armrests and clenching your teeth—as your breasts bounce painfully. Every thrust is heaven and hell. Each smack of his hips between your inner thighs causes your cervix to throb. 

Any minute now, you expect to cum and die.

Every gummy-red scenario runs through your fizzling mind as The Doctor—the top of his morally blind field—snaps the chair back and forth, repeatedly bringing your cunt furiously over his cock until you’re cumming and can’t stop.

Arcs of electricity bend and ignite off his shoulders and cranium. Doses of it pour into your body, crippling each nerve ending with ecstasy as dangerous as a live wire. 

“Yessss… oh,” your eyes roll back in your skull, “...God!”

Hot, panting breath heats your flushed face, reeking of wet metal and the sweet scent of death. His eyes rotate in his skull, nearly pinwheeling as they stare into your own, hypnotizing. 

“Doctor,” you gasp between stabs of thick cock, “please,” he fucks deeper and laughs, “cure...” another fat thrust, “...me!”

A chilling wind blows in where the shadow surgeons watch you get pounded and feasted upon. Gusts howl under broken tiles and toppled foundations. Televised static—radiation from the beginning of time—fills the Surgical Theatre and laughs. 

A jovial voice, cut with hot ions and madness, hisses through the air, “ **P’p’p’pah-patient is r’r’resssss’ponding to treatment…** ”

Against your nose, The Doctor's smile stretches painfully wide. 

It’s him. The voice… the giddy, phantom whisper in the wind. This realization forces the fine hairs down your limbs to stand on end. Goosebumps linger with every slurp and stab. Each sweaty mash of his hips and spit-soaked graze of his teeth down your broken nose comes with a whispered threat, “ **T’take your…. m’m’mm’medicine…** ”

Between The Doctor’s phantom voice and your grunting moans, you manage words like ‘yessss’ and ‘more’—more of everything. The pain. The pleasure. The insanity. None of it will be turned away. For you were hungry once, and only now do you feel full. 

“ **Who… is your… m’m’master?!?!** ”

You whisper his name, and The Doctor repeats his question from the mist as his throat produces grunts of nasty bliss.

He continues fucking you through his own orgasm, forcing ejaculate deep through your womb. Dribbles of viscid semen slip and coat your inner thighs, leaking between your ass and the chair, only adding more fluidity to the jerky, slippery sex. 

The Doctor stutters the same cracked sounds he makes when you drop a pallet on him, but this doesn’t make your spine tingle… this obliterates your sense of fear and pain. Sweet, electric euphoria is all that remains. 

Even his cum stings deliciously. Wherever it touches, static follows as if the composition of thick, opaque cum is the perfect conductor. 

He drools across your open mouth and licks dried blood from your broken nose as you seize atop the chair and twitch against your bondage. 

There’s no memory of the first time, nothing left but now. If he came inside you back at the swamp, it doesn’t ring a bell… nor does it matter. 

“... stop,” you lick your lips clean of his saliva and shudder against the sudden weight of his body against yours, “teasing… me…”

More nonsense spills off your tongue as the good doctor spurts a final shot of cum against your cervix and slips effortlessly from you wrecked cunt.

Dull-brained and reeling in your own orgasmic aftermath, you go limp in his grasp. Hands the size of saucers hold your face still. Meaty thumbs press beneath your cheekbones, massage, and peel down your eyelids clinically. 

The Doctor nudges the break in your nose—where little pain breeds—and fingers your jaw open to rub your tongue and gums. It’s oddly sensual, you think mindlessly. And when he lingers on your bottom teeth, you make sure to lick his finger joints and suck a middle digit before it retreats. 

You want his cock in your mouth now. You were full, but you're starving again, and the choicest meal would be his cum… dripping down your throat and into your stomach. You say something of the equivalent through a lazy tongue and suck on your teeth as Herman Carter unstraps you from the chair. 

The cushion takes a layer of skin with it when he peels you off the faux leather, but the burn is sweet. You feel alive—fucking alive! That’s what you’ve been missing… 

Life, in all its wretched glory.

A laugh begins in your belly and worms its way out your throat as The Doctor pets down your throat with two rough hands. He cups your breasts with a tight squeeze, rolls both nipples against his thumbs until you lean in for more. Only then does he yank you into his arms. 

The wind whistles away as The Doctor grabs your throat.

The Entity’s countdown rises to life. Fissures of magma open through long roots of decay, littering walls and floors alike.

He stands you up on jelly ankles and grunts through tight teeth when you fall to your knees and slump forward. The cold metal floor meets the side of your face with a thunk, but the chill is a relief now that there’s no more brutal fucking to distract you from the growing ache in your broken nose and swollen cheek. 

Even the throb between your thighs, as thick as it feels, doesn’t overshadow the sudden surge of pain in your face. 

With a weak moan, you dig further into the floor… 

Above you, The Doctor’s teeth click. His boots smack the floor in a half-circle before one of them nudges your back, kicking dull pressure through David’s jean jacket. 

A rumble of time drops closer to a welcome sacrifice. The world groans, brightens, and sings. Death is the logical end, so you smile and welcome it. 

But The Doctor doesn’t leave you there for The Entity’s impalement; instead, he grabs you beneath hip and shoulder, swings you up against his hard, powerful chest, and walks through several operating rooms and nurse’s stations. 

“There’s no time…” you mutter, thinking he plans on laying you in a rot-infested hospital bed to fuck you some more. 

He doesn’t drop you down and obliterate your cunt again, nor does he throw you on a meat hook for a late sacrifice… you don’t know what he plans until the twinkle-hum of an open hatch reaches your ears.

You dare to look up at him as he stops just above the rays of safety. 

The Doctor gazes down at you, eyes darting across your mangled face, over your bloody breasts and cum splattered groin. 

Is he marveling at his handiwork? Sad to see you go? It’s impossible to tell, and it doesn’t matter. You’ll be thrilled to face him again, regardless of if that’s in fear or hunger. Because Herman Carter is the bringer of pain and delights, the unplanned factor in a world of constants. 

“You’re a terrible Doctor,” you whisper, grinning.

Carter hugs you tightly, so tightly, your forehead bumps against his slick teeth. There’s no sticky kiss farewell, just a throaty gush of hot breath and… 

… he releases you like a ship drops anchor. 

Broken and busted, you fall down the open hatch. 

Darkness swallows the edges of your vision in a spiraling tunnel with The Doctor's grinning face in the center. Bright eyes and sharp teeth glint in farewell. 

He waves a single finger and chuckles wetly whilst The Entity digests and shits you out the other side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It isn’t until several trials later that you find yourself in the guts of a dead generator. Dwight kneels beside you, muttering something about wanting superpowers in purgatory when he looks up with a quick inhale. 

You’re poised to ask him if he’s okay—if he’s holding in a noisy sneeze with the thick heartbeat nearby, but when you look up from two yellow wires, there’s just a bare patch of hay…

“Seriously?” You hiss low. “I’m gonna kill that—“

A tickle snaps between your toes. That unique static cling of Herman Carter’s therapy triggers a sudden, violent reaction in your jeans. 

You blanch as two survivors make eyes with you around the dilapidated barn, hiding from the big, bad killer that’s clearing the distance toward you.

Your pulse soars as dry hay crunches beneath heavy boots. Once again, your fellow survivors quickly abandon you, fleeing through the corn stalks. Honestly? You don’t blame them. You’d run too… if it were anyone else except ‘him.’

“Haaaaa’haaaaa’haaaaaaa...”

Slowly, as if that will ease the sensations vibrating up your calves, you turn around in the empty cornfield and make eye contact with The Doctor.

He stands tall and wacks his spiny mallet in a fist, giggling.

Seconds into the trial, and you’re already fucked, you realize, carding your gaze down from his bare teeth to the wrinkled vest suit and suspenders.

“So,” you purr dramatically, “what’s a medical practitioner like you doing in a place like this?”

Herman Carter widens his stance, juts his hips forward, and lowers that dangerous weapon with a loud groan. He hooks a thumb in the hem of his slacks and bends his knees to adjust the massive erection hidden behind pinstripe cloth.

“Oh,” you smirk, “that’s what.”

He lets loose a shockwave of hot lightning that traverses straight up to your soaked cunt as if to say ‘of course.’ 

You fall from a crouch to your knees then collapse on your belly as The Doctor conducts his check-up with the utmost scrutiny. He wouldn’t want you to face anyone else without a clean bill of health and a generous helping of electric cum, now would he?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading! I feel really rusty for some reason so if there's anything (good or bad) you have to say about this one, please let me know if you have the time! Also, big thanks to Escher84 for their amazing beta skills! <3
> 
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